


Bedtime Stories

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Comfort Reading, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:51:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal hated hospitals. This made him absolutely no different from anyone else, but knowing that he wasn’t alone in his misery didn't make him any less miserable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel/gifts).



> Thanks to Fuzzyboo for beta reading!

Neal hated hospitals. This made him absolutely no different from anyone else, but knowing that he wasn’t alone in his misery didn't make him any less miserable.

Normally, he’d have just signed himself out AMA - he’d done it before and he’d do it again - but Peter had been there this time, and he hadn’t allowed it. He’d invoked his status as Neal’s handler and told Neal he’d handcuff him to bed if necessary. Neal had come dangerously close to begging, but Peter had stood firm until Neal had finally given in. 

The truth was that Neal had been too weak to argue for very long. The fall off the bridge and into the freezing water below had taken a lot out of him, and his doctors were worried there might still be water in his lungs. Neal didn’t object to staying in bed under a pile of heated blankets, but he didn’t want to do it in a hospital. He wanted to do it at Peter and El’s house, where he could snuggle with the two of them under an electric blanket that smelled like all things good and familiar. The hospital blankets smelled wrong, sterile and harsh, and he couldn’t get comfortable enough to sleep. 

He finally managed to doze off sometime after midnight, but it didn’t last long. He dreamed, short, uneasy fragments, about falling, about drowning, about being so, so cold he couldn’t take a full breath. Each time he jerked awake to the dark loneliness of his hospital room. 

The fourth time it happened, Neal woke himself up coughing and had to ring for the nurse when he couldn’t get it under control. His whole body, including his ribs, was one big bruise from the impact with the water, and coughing _hurt._ The nurse helped him sit up and gave him some oxygen, but by the time it finally ended, his eyes were streaming and he was exhausted. He supposed he had to admit then that it was a good thing he hadn’t checked himself out, except then the nurse left and he was alone again - alone, awake, and, if he was honest with himself, a little scared. 

It was a little after three in the morning. Peter and El would be sound asleep. He could not, _could not_ justify waking them up because he wasn’t feeling well and hated hospitals. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and braced himself for a long, sleepless night. 

His phone buzzed with an incoming text message. Neal frowned and picked it up. It was from Peter: _Hey, are you awake?_

Neal texted back, _Yeah, how did you know?_

Peter didn’t reply immediately. But maybe half a minute later, Neal’s phone started vibrating with an incoming call. Neal answered it with, “How did you know?”

“Just a feeling,” Peter said. “I know how you are about hospitals. And I couldn’t sleep thinking about you on your own.”

Neal closed his eyes, huddling into his nest of blankets. Already he felt a little better, a little less lonely, just knowing that Peter had been worrying about him, that Peter knew him so well. “I hope you’re not keeping El up.” 

“No, I came downstairs to call you. How are you feeling?”

“Not so great,” Neal admitted. “I had a coughing jag earlier. It wasn’t a lot of fun.”

“I bet not, with your ribs,” Peter said sympathetically. “Are you feeling warmer at least?”

“Yeah,” Neal said. “I just wish . . .”

“Me too. But it’s only overnight for observation. With any luck they’ll let you come home tomorrow.”

“I hope so,” Neal said. He closed his eyes. “I’m so tired, Peter.” 

Peter was quiet for a moment. “I was wondering - maybe I could - would you like me to read to you?” he asked, sounding embarrassed. “It’s, uh, just something my mom used to do with me when I was sick and couldn’t sleep.”

Neal smiled at the image of a small Peter curled up next to his mom. “That sounds nice.”

“Okay.” He heard some rustling noises. “Uh, how’s _Sports Illustrated_? I don’t seem to have anything else on hand. I know it’s not your thing.”

“S’okay,” Neal said. “I’m hoping I won’t actually hear much of it.”

Peter gave a soft huff of a laugh. “Right,” he said, and started reading an article about the New York Giants’ draft picks. Neal’s eyes grew heavy and he closed them, imagining that he was at home in the Burkes’ bed, with Peter right next to him. Within minutes, he was asleep. This time, if he dreamed, he didn’t remember it. 

Luck was on Neal’s side. There were no more coughing fits in the night, and the next morning his doctor pronounced him fit to go home. El picked him up, since Peter had to be at the office to deal with the case that had resulted in Neal taking a swan dive off a bridge, and the two of them drove to Brooklyn. El had the heater blasting in the car; Neal leaned the passenger seat back and closed his eyes. 

At home, El helped get him settled in their bed in the master bedroom. Neal snuggled down into the flannel sheets and warm duvet, which smelled fresh and clean and just right. “Warm enough, sweetie?” El asked, passing a hand over Neal’s forehead. 

“‘S perfect,” Neal said, pressing his face into his pillow. 

Neal dozed in and out for the rest of the afternoon. When he finally woke, Peter was sitting up on the other half of the bed, poking at his laptop, a stack of files on the bed between them. “Hey,” Neal mumbled, voice rough. 

“Hey,” Peter said, glancing down at him with a smile. “How’re you doing?”

“Better,” Neal said, suppressing a yawn. 

“Sorry about the mess. I’m trying to get my report filed so I won’t have to think about it this weekend. Here, let me just clear some of this away.” Peter closed his laptop and put it on the floor, then shifted the files off the bed as well. “There, that’s better. C’mere?” He helped Neal move over, so that his head was in Peter’s lap. Neal sighed, and Peter rubbed his shoulder gently. “I know last night was rough.”

“Could’ve been worse. I slept better after you called.” Neal was quiet for a moment. “Thank you, by the way. I don’t think I said that last night.”

Peter’s hand kept moving back and forth on Neal’s shoulder. “It was at least as much for me as it was for you. Seeing you plunge off the bridge - I don’t think I ever quite understood the meaning behind the phrase ‘heart in your mouth’ before.”

Neal rolled onto his back to look up at Peter. “I’m sorry.”

Peter shook his head. “I’d tell you not to do it again, but I know better at this point. But I was glad to hear your voice for a bit last night. I slept better afterward, too.”

“I bet we’ll both sleep better tonight,” Neal said, looking forward with pleasure to a rare night spent between his two favorite people. “Even without a bedtime story.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Actually, I, um. I stopped by the library on the way home, got something I thought you might like better than _Sports Illustrated._ ”

“Oh?” Neal said, lifting his head. “What?”

Peter looked embarrassed. “ _The Little Prince_. If you don’t like it, we have other books,” he added hastily, “but I thought - I don’t know, it’s French, not that I can read it in French, but I thought you might like it.”

Neal smiled, mostly at Peter’s embarrassment, but also because, without knowing it, Peter had managed to pick one of Neal’s favorites, the story of the prince who fell from the stars. “I do, Peter. Thanks.” 

Peter looked pleased and just a little relieved. He retrieved the book from downstairs, and they settled themselves again, Neal’s head resting on a pillow in Peter’s lap. Neal closed his eyes. He let Peter’s voice wash over him, wash away the loneliness and misery of the night in the hospital. He didn't sleep, but he relaxed into the familiar phrases of the story and the warm strength of Peter’s body, and was content.

_Fin._


End file.
